Ereden
Legacy Name: Ereden

The rangers carefully examined the carcass of a horse. The kill was fresh, each bone cracked and cleaned of the marrow within.

"The stallion was no man's mount but neither was he born wild. The grass here could not sustain even one horse for more than a couple of days." Ereden plucked a brittle stem, holding it up for a closer inspection. "It has been a fortnight or more since this part of Eriador has seen rain."

Aragorn nodded. "There are no smaller bones among the remains. I have never known an orc that would settle for horse flesh when they could dine on the flesh of man."

Ereden's mail-gloved hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword. His armor was of elvish make, supple yet able to endure the blow of an enraged troll without denting. The bow at his back was said to be formed from the wood of a white oak tree, planted by the hand of Beren, he who plucked one of the three Silmarils from the iron crown of Sauron to offer it in exchange for Lúthien's hand. Ereden crafted his own arrows, fletching them with the feathers of the carrion crows that were increasing their territories as the forces of Mordor grew and spread. "Dawn approaches. We must move on."

They pointed the noses of their mounts in the direction of a trail formed by many pounding feet. The sun rising at their backs was an ally they intended to use to their advantage as they caught sight of the tribe at last. The orcs were rapidly approaching their target in a lope that was efficient but could never be called graceful. Their leader could almost be mistaken for a dwarf from the rear, but one glance at his leering face and yellow fangs would eliminate any doubt of his species.

The orcs were forced to turn as the beating of hooves warned them of enemies to the rear. Three were dead before they could do more than utter a curse. Twelve remained, weapons at the ready. They shrieked as the sun lit upon their faces but the will of their master prevailed over their deep-seated hatred of the sun and they stood their ground.

It was not a long fight. Only two orcs had any skill with a bow and one of these was among the slain. The two rangers fought back to back, never interfering and always hitting the mark with the greatest accuracy. The leader was the last to fall, choking on his own blood as he uttered the blackest curse he knew.

Ereden and Aragorn cleaned their blades with care, removing every speck of orc blood. Thicker than the blood of any free race, it was also more corrosive on a blade left unattended.

"You are still bent on following the wizard's advice?" Ereden made no effort to hide the contempt in his tone. He had a soldier's deep mistrust of all wizards.

"He is a good man, my friend. He is not in the habit of turning men into toads, though I can think of a few merchants in Edoras who could stand the improvement."

Ereden stared blankly as Aragorn grinned, not amused.

"Gandalf has never given me poor advice." Aragorn clasped hands with his oldest friend. "I know you will look after the people of Rohan and keep the torches burning in the halls of our allies there."

On the evening when a man named Strider exhanged words with the hobbit Frodo, gaining his place in the Fellowship of legend, Ereden could be seen coaxing his loyal Maranwë to ever greater speeds, his sharp brown eyes fixed on the southern horizon.

Lady Éowyn studied the man with a critical eye. He had not the face of a bard, but the grim look a warrior acquires after too many battles. Not a single brown hair was out of place in the neat mane that brushed his shoulders nor in his beard. His almond-shaped eyes were the color of upturned earth after the spring rains.

Ereden ignored her assessment, his full attention focused on the king. Théoden brooded over the loss of Shadowfax, a horse he had considered inferior to the others in his stable. Did he not now hear tales of how the mighty Gandalf had crossed from Rohan to Hobbitton with a speed unsurpassed by man or beast? Théoden had tried to win the heart of Shadowfax himself to no avail. He had believed the horse too wild at heart to ever bear a rider, yet the wizard won over that heart. It was a grave insult to the king of a people that loved their horses as kin.

His grudge was not with this young ranger who vowed his services for the good of Rohan. The diamond on his brow gleamed as he raised a hand and accepted Ereden's oath.

Not a day passed when Ereden could not be found in the halls of the proud king, but the darkness descending on Middle Earth took many forms. Ereden's eyes were on the horizon, scanning for foul creatures bred in the pits of Mordor. He paid no notice to the worm burrowing into the king's ear.

Ereden accompanied the riders of Rohan east, his keen eyes and sure hands earning him a place among the hunters of orcs. He had told tales of battle many a night as the fair-haired horsemen feasted around the hearth of their king, twice proving with blade and bow that they were no mere stories of fancy. The care he showed Maranwë furthered their respect, for never had they encountered a man beyond the hall of Rohan who treated his horse as a friend rather than a beast of burden.

Three warriors and their mounts had been slain, their bones piled in a disgraceful pile that the carrion crows greedily fought over. One tattered banner caught in the branches of a tree had confirmed them as men of Rohan.

This band of orcs was no idle group of scavengers and the men of Rohan had the misfortune to locate them as the sun was setting. There were near to thirty, dressed in full battle armor. Ereden held back his companions, earning a wary look from their commander, Edor. With hand signals he drew their attention to the orc posted as sentry and the wicked knives that were surely poisoned.

Seven orcs were gathered in a loose circle around a hunched form that whimpered as one poked it with a stick. Their laughter was harsh as they taunted the boy in the Black Speech of their race, teasing him with a view of the spear just beyond his reach. He stumbled forward, only to fall back with a gasp as one of his tormentors lashed out with a steel-tipped boot. Edor's men glared their hatred and ground their teeth but they were well disciplined. They would not attack without a command.

Reluctantly, Edor looked to Ereden. Edor was a skilled fighter but most of the skirmishes he'd fought were a part of his duty to protect the border. He had never been in a battle of this magnitude nor had he encountered orcs capable of organization.

When the battle began, the sentry was the first to die. His companions had time to catch a strangled croak before three more of their number fell beneath a rain of arrows. The orcs were on the alert in an instant, spears at the ready as the men of Rohan charged into their camp.

Ereden crossed blades with a heavyset orc who raised two curved blades in defense. They offered the fool creature no advantage, serving only to present an easier target as the orc's powerful swing turned him in a half-circle. Ereden's blade buried nearly to the hilt in his meaty shoulder as one blade fell to the ground. The orc howled his rage and swung the remaining blade blindly before him. A knife to the eye brought an end to his thrashing.

Another orc charged forward with a snarl. This brute had three impressive scars running the length of his right cheek to the tip of his chin and he was no novice with a blade. Ereden's blade weaved in an intricate rhythm broken only when his opponent's thrust went wide, giving him an opening he did not forsake. The orc roared his fury but it was a final cry of defiance.

Ereden straightened, taking advantage of a quiet moment to scan the clearing. The orcs had proved worthy opponents but they were losing. Ereden caught the eye of the one orc who had remained with the prisoner throughout the battle. Before an arrow took him in the throat, he stabbed the boy with a grunt of malice. His eyes locked on Ereden until they were no longer capable of sight, full of hatred and gloating.

The Riders of Rohan saw to their wounded and gathered the bodies of their dead, leaving the orc bodies to rot. Ereden made for the boy. His braid had been cut away, still hanging as a trophy from the tunic of an orc that stared at the rising moon with glassy eyes. His eyes widened as Ereden knelt beside him, examining the wound with care. The dark-haired men of Gondor were more legend than fact to the youths of Rohan. This boy was barely old enough to bear a shield, yet he had seen a battle that had turned men thrice his age into cowards.

The boy cried out as the poison began to take effect. Ereden turned away. He knew the common herbs used to treat wounds but he was no healer.

The men of Rohan were solemn as they took their evening meal around the fire. They wrapped the boy in a spare horse blanket, offering what little comfort they could. Ereden ate his bread alone, wanting no part in their grieving. He kept his distance as Edor's men buried their dead at dawn. The boy was the last to return to the earth, his patch of remaining hair gently smoothed and all traces of blood washed from his face.

"Your services are no longer required, ranger. Return to your wanderings, for you will take no further meals at the table of the king. Look how you place in his withered hands the news of more death, more loss. Several fine sons of Rohan slain by your carelessness. For was it not you that took command?"

Ereden had been gone only two weeks, yet in that time the proud head of Théoden was bent by the grief of losing his son Théodred. The king did not react to Wormtongue's words as the pale man stared down at Ereden from his seat on the dias.

"I am not in the habit of taking my orders from worms, you skulking parasite. I do not know by what dark power you have secured the ear of the king but I swear I will find out."

Wormtongue smiled, his dark eyes sparkling with delight. "Be careful how you speak to me, homeless one." He turned his head to whisper in the king's ear.

"Your services are no longer required, Ereden. Be gone from my hall and do not return. You are in league with the wizard and his supporters and no friend of Gandalf is welcome beneath my roof." Théoden's voice was toneless, the voice of a puppet jerking under the strings of a manipulative hand.

Ereden shoved away the restraining hand of a guard, stalking from the hall without a word to those concerned men who stepped forward to speak with him. Maranwë whickered a greeting, stepping forward eagerly as his master took down the saddle from its hook.

He rode until the borders of Rohan were a distant blur, making for one of the posts known only to rangers. He made no effort to hide his anger in the message he wrote to Aragorn. If his news reached Gandalf and tweaked the wizard's tail, all the better. He could not be expected to look after a king who had banished him and he was tired of sleeping beneath the confinement of a man-made roof. He watched the messenger hawk shooting across the cloudy sky, stroking Maranwë's mane as he turned to follow unmarked paths back to the wild lands he loved.

Story by Pureflower, inspired by LOTR
Layout by Ringo, Art by Boofrickityhoo
TC section added by User not found: zerataku
Divider by RBSRdesigns